


The Wheels on the Bus

by badapplegrell, i_am_sion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, hahahhahhhahah what is writing, i can't drive a car because its in my genes like thanks mom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:25:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7755901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badapplegrell/pseuds/badapplegrell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_sion/pseuds/i_am_sion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In other words, John teaches Sherlock how to drive. Much to his dismay, he's a bad student as he is a driver. Pickup truck fluff ensues.</p><p>Pls read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wheels on the Bus

**Author's Note:**

> HEYYO. I have to say. This plot was the brainchild of i_am_sion (iviisims.tumblr.com) (but they won’t admit it) and I would like to give a huge bloody thank you to rxdhxads.tumblr.com for helpin’ me out when I was stuck for the longest time. It’s an insanely amazin’ plot, but then again what can you expect from insanely amazin’ people?
> 
> I do have to admit something, however. Sion wrote, like, 99.9% of the ending. I couldn’t do it to save my life and so they swooped in like the angel they are and helped me out big time. As in big time. Like, I was stuck for 2 weeks and they helped me ultimately. So, if you liked the ending, you have them to thank!
> 
> ANYWAYS. I might do an xReader version of it if I fancy. But I hope you like this..! I had so much fun writing this and I think it's really nice!
> 
>  **Note:** If you would like to correct any technical/factual error mistake things regarding the car and/or driving please do.

×•×•×

The words that have sputtered out of his mouth have struck John in an indescribable manner. John takes to wordless stammering and awkward hand motions. But ultimately, he blogger cannot help but to smile at Sherlock, tight-lipped and now scuffing his sock-clad feet on the dingy carpet.

 **“You don’t know how to drive?” John enunciates as if talking to a child (though, in fairness, he virtually is).** To Sherlock, his question rubs off as mocking and not incredulous as intended, so he flops in irritation on the sunken couch with his usual carelessness. The London daylight bleeds through the curtains and brightens Sherlock’s upset countenance.

He affirms, averting eye contact, ”I do not.” A frown takes over John’s tired face, and he opens his mouth only to close it again. His bleak eyes narrow in confusion. When John finds the right words, his fingers twitch awkwardly.

“As in, you deleted it from your memory? Or you just never… learned?”

Sherlock turns to the suddenly interesting window with a childish huff, ”You shouldn’t have switched body soap brands.” The addressed rolls his eyes at his defense mechanism.

“Just… fine. Fine. I will. Now, answer my previous question,” John pinches the bridge of his nose whilst leaning on the doorframe. Sherlock exhales sharply, “The latter. …Mycroft never considered teaching me and Sherrinford was too busy with her travels. I don’t have to justify Enola’s… reason.” The last sentence is expressed in a blur of words and with chagrin and a dismissive hand wave.

Somewhat satisfied with his answer, John takes his leave from the room muttering something about taking cabs left and right.

×•×•×

The world’s sole consulting detective’s ears twitch at the sound of the vehicle parking outside 221B Baker Street—not a taxicab, not a bus, but a worn-down pickup truck. Silhouetted by the intense daylight, his curls shift around when he turns and leans over the arm of his chair to peek out the window. Using a singular finger to push away the curtain, Sherlock is taken aback to see John get out from the driver’s side.

Thinking of the billions of reasons as to why the car is currently at John’s disposal, he sinks back into his chair. A low, exasperated grumble does he emit when he narrows down to the only explanation. John practically jumps into the room, like the embodiment of a puppy.

Almost unintentionally, John chucks the car keys at Sherlock’s face in an attempt to toss them. If his steepled fingers had not been there to block the throw, we would never see John ever again. With a sour glare, Sherlock returns the favour. Unfazed and still low-key excited, John expertly catches them and pulls Sherlock from the chair.

“Come on. Let’s get moving. I’m teaching Sherlock Holmes how to drive today,” John turns on his heel, addressing the subject with a smug mien.

“Sherlock Holmes would not like to learn how to drive,” Sherlock protests, speaking in third person. He balls his pale hands into tight fists out of uncalled-for stubbornness, his uncut nails digging into his skin. Nonetheless, he allows himself to be physically hauled out the door by his exceptionally loyal and persistent blogger.

 **And what a sight they are when they burst through the door of their shared flat.** First, there’s John, grinning like the idiot he is. Then, there’s Sherlock, donning mussy curls, pyjama pants, merely socks as footwear, and a long dressing gown, being virtually pulled by the ear to a white pickup truck, seemingly a survivor of the Incredible Hulk’s fury.

Upon seeing the car up close, in distaste, Sherlock makes a face encapsulating his loathing and detestation. John pushes the ring of keys onto his chest, thinking Sherlock would take them. Instead, he lets it fall to the ground, glower still in tow. John picks up the keys and places them in Sherlock’s hands who lets them fall once more.

“No, John.”

“Yes, Sherlock. Now, pick up the damn keys or I will shove them down your throat,” John leans in, irked. It’s bloody terrifying, so Sherlock complies hastily. He opens the door and his dressing gown gets caught on the torn leather seat. John with his arm leaning on the door, watches.

Blatantly, he corrects the now dumbfounded detective,”You’re not even in the driver’s seat.”

×•×•×

An incredulous John takes over driving to an empty parking lot. One can only imagine how much havoc Sherlock would have wreaked. John pops open the vehicle door and walks around it to get to the passenger seat. Almost reluctantly, Sherlock gets up and, instead of trudging out of the car like John, swings his legs over the centre console and plops onto the driver seat. Once again, the ripped leather snags his dressing gown. John rolls his eyes.

“Alright, Sherlock, just do what you think is correct.”

Expectantly, John hands over the car keys and takes his seat in the passenger side. Sherlock quickly grabs them from his hands, and his fingers fumble a bit upon sticking the keys in the ignition. Recalling a scene from an action movie, Sherlock’s hands quirk to adjust the rearview mirror into what he thinks is an appropriate position. The motion is quick and forceful (as depicted in said movie) and it almost falls off its flimsy holder. John squints at his flatmate in disbelief. Offering no assistance, he continues staring at him, trying to guess his next action. Sherlock grips the wheel, shoulders tense, and presses somewhat forcefully on a pedal.

He braces himself for the outcome. …John bursts into a fit of laughter.

“Sherlock..! You dolt!” he calls out, his shoulders shaking with chortles. He covers his lovable grin with the back of his work-worn hand, the other helplessly swatting the now student driver. Sherlock opens his eyes to see John in his current amused state.

“Well, I’m glad you see the humour in it, John,” he mutters, embarrassed and cross. His lean arms fold across his chest as he scoffs. John’s face softens into a teasing simper, “Oh, don’t be like that.”

Upset, Sherlock questions, “Like what?” He grumpily huffs, blowing his curls out of his face. John leans forward in the passenger seat to study his expression of discontent and reluctance.

He reaches out, almost unconsciously, placing a hand on his tense forearm not out of charity but of leniency. John looks to him with firm solicitude, “Hey. You don’t have to do this if you would not like to.” Sherlock immediately answers his affirmation, “No! I want to do this. John.” **In succession, Sherlock looks back at him with a wordless plea.** Exhaling with a nod, John lets his hand drop back to his lap. After a brief and surprisingly nice pause, he points out his small but significant errors.

“First off, you didn’t even turn the key to start the car.” At his response, Sherlock quickly does so. The vehicle rumbles quietly, bringing a satisfied look to the detective’s countenance. John continues down the list.

“Secondly, you pressed the clutch and not the accelerator,” he corrects, pointing to the respective pedals. Tentatively, Sherlock presses down on them whilst taking mental notes. John meagerly grins at his low-key effort to learn. He marvels how Sherlock could be so freshly exposed to something that John has known to do since the age sixteen or so.

“Third of all, you haven’t changed gears; you’re still in ‘park.’ Fourth, the handbrake is still engaged,” John says, tapping the respective levers. Sherlock’s hands hover over them, not entirely sure. Without hesitating, John reaches over to direct his hand to release the handbrake. The renown blogger’s actions are patient and even-tempered, contrary to what people usually feel when working with Sherlock.

“You see, you have to press down on the clutch when you change gears, though,” he instructs.

Once the car is all set and at Sherlock’s disposal, John leans back onto the sunken, torn passenger seat.

Sherlock presses down on the accelerator, his inexplicably bright eyes squinting at the barren parking lot. The truck sets in motion… at the speed of growing grass. John, clasped hands in lap, frowns in confusion. He looks to Sherlock, determined and fraught with motivation. His blogger looks to the speedometer then to Sherlock.

“You could make the car go a little quicker, you know?”

As a response, he receives a curt nod, and the car speeds up just the slightest. John took to wordless stammering and awkward hand motions. **After a few moments of silence, John wishes Sherlock could say anything–which is silly in one’s estimation considering John would like Sherlock to shut up every five seconds.**

“Try turning, now,” John suggests, breaking the deafening silence. Sherlock turns the wheel to the right by a few degrees and then to the left, making the car swerve subtly like an intoxicated granny. John’s nose twitches just the slightest.

This is gonna take a while.

×•×•×

A good eight dents and countless directions later, the sun sets quicker than anticipated and the duo finds themselves in the back of the sullied truck. John, leaning forward and legs dangling from the open panel, stares at the sky with his own stars in his eyes. Sherlock, in contrast, is well-composed and sitting upright. John’s usually bleak eyes dart across the sky in attempt to recognize the brilliant array of constellations.

Sherlock gazes at him for a moment and licks his lips warmly. John blinks in the starlight, unwilling to turn away from a beautiful sight to, well, something (someone, rather) just as stunning. Wow that was cheesy.

“Is something the matter?” he questions in soft tones, a mild colour of pink tinting his cheeks. The veteran fully turns to him. Then, to John’s great surprise, Sherlock holds his face in his hands. John’s face reddens a billion shades and he takes to puzzled stammering. He shuts up.

“Thank you for today, John.” Sherlock expresses with a low hum. John briefly glances at the other from behind a furrowed brow and just as quickly averts his grey stare, so as not to expose his piqued interest.

“For what?” He scoffs, noncommittal. “For letting you wreck Molly’s car?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Sherlock sighs, breath warm and sweet on John’s turned cheek. “It’s not something so bad you need to take it into the shop for.”

“Wh– Yes, it is!” The doctor protests, his voice becoming tight with restrained laughter. A chaste kiss ghosts across the upturned corners of his lips, and any further objections John has are lost to the chilled fall air. He manages to look the other man in the eye once more, simply out of pure shock– as if their faces were no more than two inches apart for the past aching minute. “N-n-now why have you gone and done that for?!”

The only reply he receives is a low chuckle and another coaxing peck, and this time, Sherlock is sure not to miss his mouth.

×•×•×

**Author's Note:**

> And that’s the end of it..! I hope you like it. It’s ironic, though; Martin F. does not know how to drive and Benny C. does. Initially, John was supposed to drive the Land Rover in “The Hounds of Baskerville” episode, but Benny had to take over with the driving. I had a laugh about that whilst writing this..! Also! A bit of this is based on that one scene from Bob’s Burgers where Tina tries to drive. I know—lame. Anyways. I love all feedback— nice, mean, passive-aggressive.
> 
> HELP WANTED: If you would like to help me edit the driving part thing please notify me. I have little experience with the mechanics and all that jazz regarding cars.
> 
> **If you read this, please, please, please leave a comment! Be it a short or interminable comment! Tell me what you think about this work! I implore you to do so..! I usually subscribe to you if you do.**


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